


and those he plays never suspect he doesn't play for the money he wins

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A game of poker going bad — or quite perfectly, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and those he plays never suspect he doesn't play for the money he wins

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read and titled by the ever wonderful [Def](http://archiveofourown.org/users/defe). <3

When they get the table settled and everyone starts picking a seat, Jorge makes a disgusted noise from the back of his throat.

" _Poker_ ," he says, and there's so much hate in his voice you'd think a guy named Poker just ran over his dog. Twice. With a tank.

It's Rudy's deck of cards, though, so he's the one making the rules, and as much as he loves Jorge there's no way he's going to sit through yet another game of _la pocha_ now that he's one of the senior players and he's actually calling the shots. Plus, no matter how many caps he's got on him, Jorge is not even actually _on_ the team this time; he's a visitor and the only reason he's still there, pouting and crossing his arms on his chest, is that the hotel's security is extremely lousy. He really shouldn't be pushing it.

"Serge can't play _la pocha_ ," Rudy offers, magnanimous, and he starts shuffling the shiny new cards.

"Serge is not even here," Jorge points out, and Rudy cringes. Before he can try another line of defense, Álex — Epic Intruder Number Two, but it's not likely to make the news because really, _joined at the hip_ doesn't even begin to describe him and Jorge; — laughs, and then his hands are on Jorge's shoulders and he's gently pushing him towards the door.

"C'mon, Jorgi, let's go see if we can find San Eme," he says, and Jorge protests, but really, he never stood a chance. Rudy watches as they go, he actually waves, and Álex flips him off with a smile before kicking the door closed.

"Was that the sound of someone leaving?" Marc asks as he emerges from the bathroom, a worried frown on his face. "Do I need to call in some friends? You know I get worried when the number of people in this room gets almost okay by security standards."

Pau smacks him around the head and gestures for him to take a seat, which Marc does in a heartbeat, grinning.

"Texas Hold'em," Rudy says, not that anyone's going to object.

"Juanqui, you're not playing?" Ricky asks, stretching out as much as he can to look past Felipe's massive shoulders. Juan Carlos is sprawled kind of randomly on one of the beds — probably Pau's, as it's the one farther from the window and Juanca usually picks the one closest to it for himself, — one leg thrown over the other, holding a thick book at about ten inches from the tip of his nose.

" _Hmngh_ , nope," he says, completely engulfed by whatever it is that he's reading, and he doesn't even tear his eyes off the page. He's been like that for the last two hours, and Ricky arches an eyebrow, mildly worried.

Marc rolls his eyes. " _A Song of Ice and Fire_ ," he explains. "My genius of a brother decided to introduce him to the thing yesterday, and of course we lost him in under a second, I think it's a record."

"It's a richly satisfying and utterly engrossing series," Pau replies, stone-faced, and he's probably quoting some back cover blurb.

"Well, that explains a lot," Ricky says, grinning at Victor and making him blush.

"I never coerced anyone into reading anything."

Pau makes an outraged noise. "I never _coerced_ anyone either! Juanqui picked the book of his own will, if he had come to me I would've actually suggested something less — something _else_ , Juanqui, please, would you tell them I never ever forced you to do anything?"

Everyone around the table laughs at the double entendre there, and Pau doesn't even know who to hit first. Juan Carlos turns a page.

"Yeah," he says, distracted. Ricky takes a mental note to steal Victor's copy of _A Game of Thrones_ , one of these days, and then Rudy's dealing the cards.

*

"Double or quits!" Rudy yells, pumping his fist in the air with the enthusiasm of an eight years old left loose in Disneyland. They've been sitting there, playing one single endless game of poker, for the past two hours and a half; Felipe feels his eyes crossing every other minute, Victor is dozing off but Pau, Marc, Ricky and Rudy are playing like their _lives_ are at stake.

"Fuck," Marc says, finally, throwing his cards onto the table in a fit of rage, then scrubbing his head with both hands. "I quit."

"You can't!" Rudy squeaks, and he sounds exactly like one of those chewy dog toys with the little trumpet inside. Ricky giggles, but Rudy is deadly serious. "You can't quit, Marc. This is my game we're playing, if I say you can't quit, you can't quit."

"I'm out of peanuts!" Marc complains, gesturing at his empty side of the table.

They've been betting peanuts and snacks they really shouldn't be eating and fuzzy promises of dog-sitting and finding-a-date-for-my-sister's-friend, because apparently, robbing your pals of their money isn't the best way to build up trust and team work, so that's the only thing coach Scariolo asked of them; _stay up till morning, do whatever you want, I don't care as long as you get alive and functioning and on time at training, but don’t. Fucking. Gamble. For. Money_ , he said, and they listened because, well, he's Scariolo. He has that little writing board, everyone's afraid of Scariolo's writing board.

It doesn't hurt, either, that he's the one deciding who's going to play and who's going to rot on the bench instead.

So, Marc is out of peanuts and he won't ever again get closer than ten feet to Rudy's dog, — Marc loves pets, and dogs especially, and Max is great but he's as insane as his owner, and way smarter, so no, thanks, looking after him _on his own_ is not an experience Marc is willing to make, — but Rudy won't let him leave the table.

"I think it's safe to say we're at an impasse," Victor chuckles. Rudy frowns with his entire body, bless him and his ridiculously expressive bones.

"I'll take your shoes," he says, after a beat.

"What?!"

"They won't even fit you," Felipe says, his mouth curling up the slightest bit. Rudy shrughs.

"No way I'm taking his shirt or anything else, we ain't playin' no strip poker, _nuh-uh_ ," he says, stressing the _nuh-uh_ thing with a smooth rocking of his finger he learnt last summer in Italy.

"No stripping in my room," Juan Carlos says, and this time he even loses a moment of reading to glare at them like a scorned teacher.

"Booooring," Rudy huffs, rolling his eyes. Juan Carlos has gone back to Westeros, though, so he doesn't really hear him, or maybe he's just ignoring them again.

Anyway, Marc is now grinning like a crazy person, which is a look he wears very often and yet it still scares the shit out of everyone — except maybe Pau and Juan Carlos, because they know he's never going to do anything that might hurt them, at least not hurt them as bad as anyone else.

"Okay," he says, and picks up his cards again; two of them went off face-up, and Victor suggests they play this hand again from scratch. "Then I'm betting a full night of fun with the captain, there."

He actually points a thumb over his shoulders in the general direction of the beds, in the general direction of _Juan Carlos_ , and there's a moment of silence as the guys process what exactly he said and Marc just sits there looking very smug and annoying.

Pau gets it first, and he kicks his brother's calf under the table.

"You're betting _what_?" he says, kinda breathless.

"Are you serious?" Ricky asks, instead, and he's squinting at Marc's face, looking for the slightest hint of deception. Felipe and Victor and Rudy just laugh, and they look at him like he's insane. Again, it's not really something unusual.

"Dead serious," Marc nods. Pau kicks him again, like the Eurobasket isn't less than two weeks away and they can get their best five injured over a quarrel about Juan Carlos'— like they can get their best five injured _at all_.

"You're betting _what_?" he asks again, his eyes huge and unblinking. Marc grins at him a little bit harder.

"A full night of fun with our fearless _capi_ ," he says, slowly, to make sure his brother gets it. "If you know what I mean."

Pau knows exactly what he means, thank you very much, but it doesn't mean he's willing to stand by and watch his brother _sell Juanqui's ass_ , quite literally, to pay his gambling debts.

"You can't _bet him_ ," he points out, frowning. "He's not a peanut."

Rudy nods, thoughtful.

"Pau's right," he says, thank God. His cards, his rules. "You can't bet him, you don't, like, _own_ him."

Marc looks genuinely upset.

"He's my brother's boyfriend!" he says, palms up, eyes huge. "He's basically my propriety!"

Pau is too busy blushing like a maid to think of some clever retort; on the other side of the table, Ricky leans out of his chair to poke Rudy's side.

"He's kinda right," he says, and he's fluttering his fucking endless curvy lashes and, oh, God, Rudy is seriously starting to rethink this.

Pau's stomach sinks down five floors when Rudy grins and accepts Marc's offer of Juan Carlos'— Juan Carlos'— good God, he can't even think about it.

*

Ricky is as good at cheating as he's good at stealing balls and getting whatever he wants, which is to say, he's the smoothest cardsharper in the history of gaming. Pau is sort of surprised, but considering the stakes, he probably shouldn't be.

Ricky wins all their peanuts and Kit Kat bars in a matter of _minutes_ , when the five hands before this one had dragged out for hours, and then, there he is, getting _a full night of fun with the captain, if you know what I mean_ off of Marc. The kid is a bastard and it's a good thing he's on their side, when there's trophies and medals and shit to be won.

"Sorry, bro," Marc says, clapping Pau's shoulder, but he's mourning his snacks so much more than Juan Carlos'— _that_.

"This is insane," Pau says. "Also, we're not boyfriends."

Everyone just ignores that — for a split second, Pau is sure he sees even Juanqui's mouth curl up in a smug grin. Rudy stretches out on his chair, he doesn't even try to hide a giant yawn.

"I'm super tired," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "We call it a night? I've only got my skin and bones left, Rubes, d'ya want them too?"

"Nope, not really," Ricky says, and he's smiling so hard his face must be sore. Pau hates him a little. Also, no way he's sleeping with Rudy tonight.

"Calde fixed his Xbox," Victor says, tapping away at his phone. "He says we can join in on him and Llull, they could use the company."

"I'm in," Marc says, and he starts getting up. "Also, dude, you should start calling Ser by his name, you know. This whole _Llull_ thing, it's kinda cold. You break his heart."

Victor blushes, but holds his gaze.

"He won't stop calling me Sada, though," he points out, frowning.

"That's because we have Claver, and he's a Victor too," Marc says. "Also, you shouldn't mind what Sergio says or does. He's so in love with you it makes him very stupid."

Victor is about to start laughing, only it's not really a joke, and he knows Marc well enough to realize it pretty fast. He shuts his eyes, as Pau and Rudy and Felipe do their best not to laugh in his face and at poor Sergio's back, and, now _that_ 's called blushing.

"Are you _insane_?" Victor asks, pretty much a rhetorical question, and he steals a peanut from Ricky's loot to throw it at Marc's head with surprising accuracy, considering it's Victor.

Marc grins. "Absolutely," he says. "But I also never lie. Well, I'm not lying right now. But this conversation never happened. C'mon, if we get there fast enough I can take the cool controller while Ser's staring at your ass."

Victor gapes at him for a moment, before shaking his head and getting out of the chair. Felipe goes with them, and Rudy quickly shoves away his tiredness to follow as well. Ricky and Pau look at each other from across the table, and all that's missing is an old saloon and a clock tower stuck on midday and a couple of cowboy hats, some horses, guns, the desert, and, okay, maybe they're not going to reenact _High Noon_ , but Pau is starting to wish they were. His brother's madness has clearly started to rub off on him.

"Pau, c'mon, the kid put up a fair fight and won," Marc says, grinning down at him from the door. Pau could point out that, no, Ricky played and deceived them all and God only knows how you can hide an ace up a short-sleeved t-shirt but somehow he did; Pau is a gentleman, though, so he pushes himself up and accepts defeat very graciously.

"Just — I don't know. Just _don't_ ," he tells Ricky, because how the fuck did his life get like this. Ricky just smiles, cocky and tooth-y, and Pau rolls his eyes.

On his way out of the room, he taps lightly at Juan Carlos' foot, knocking his leg off from where it was hanging over the other. Juan Carlos kicks out blindly and hits him in the hip, then he grins behind Pau's _A Clash of Kings_ paperback.

Pau barely resists the urge to tickle him under the knee, then he doesn't; he squirms away to avoid Juan Carlos' second kick — meaner, this time; he really doesn't like being tickled when there's an audience, — and then he's finally out of the room.

Ricky gets up the second the door closes behind Pau's back. He all but runs to the bed to sit on the edge of the mattress, twisting his torso to look at Juan Carlos.

" _Juanki_ ," he calls out, softly. "You really didn't hear anything we said all night?"

Juan Carlos gets to the end of the paragraph he was reading before turning to look at him, and he doesn't really seem surprised to see Ricky sitting there, or that they're alone. Yeah, he's probably just way a better actor than anyone gives him credit for.

"I heard something about eating a wolf's heart during the fool moon to turn into a werewolf," he says, unfazed. Ricky grins, because that's what Rudy said when he voiced some of his doubts about the Timberwolves and how he's going to fit with them.

"Nothing else?" he asks, looking at Juan Carlos from under his lashes because that's one of the things he does best, and he's fucking brilliant at almost everything. Juan Carlos just looks back, anyway, but that's old news too; Ricky doesn't even need his fingers to keep track of all the times he managed to get under Juan Carlos' skin deep enough to shatter his self-control. Even worse, half of those times it wasn't even about him, the curve of his lips or the dark shadow of his most hypnotic gaze.

Juan Carlos has only ever grabbed his shoulders because they'd won something; he has only ever held him and let Ricky bury his face into his neck to breathe him in and almost taste his skin because they'd lost. He has only ever looked for his hands to read a play off of them, and that one time he actually closed his fingers around Ricky's wrist in Paris was because he really wanted him to stop biting his nails during the Euroleague final.

Ricky looks at him. This time, there's something slightly unsettled in Juan Carlos, and it has nothing to do with the drunkenness of a shiny new medal hanging from his neck.

"Ricky," Juan Carlos says. A warning. It's clearly a warning, and for Ricky, it's more than enough.

He kicks off his slippers, scrambles onto to the bed and then he's crawling up Juan Carlos' body, he's all over him and Juan Carlos has to put away his book.

"Hey," Ricky says, grinning. He's on all fours, one leg on either side of Juan Carlos' hips, and he pushes them closer a bit, just to feel how real this moment is.

Juan Carlos just looks back at him, and apparently he's not very impressed by the twenty years old boy-wonder that just crawled over him.

Ricky really wants to bite him. Playfully. Kind of everywhere.

"Hi," Juan Carlos says, and then he checks that his book is still safe on the other half of the huge bed. Ricky giggles, his head feels very light; he bends his arms to come rest on his elbows, and pushes his face against Juan Carlos' neck.

"I won you at poker," he says, and he can feel Juan Carlos get tense for half a moment.

"You can't really win someone at poker," Juan Carlos points out; Ricky laughs again, kisses his way up Juan Carlos' neck, noses the corner of his jaw. Juan Carlos' beard tickles and burns him a little, and it's unbelievably good.

"I just did," Ricky says, and he stops to look at him for another heartbeat or maybe twenty of them, maybe the entire universe and even all the ones that don't really exist just got frozen for an eternity and then the eternity is snapping into just a billion hours, not so much after all, which is the time it takes Ricky to finally touch Juan Carlos' lips with his own.

And then they're kissing, and that's when time and space and fucking everything just really crumbles down because, _oh_ , Ricky has been thinking about this maybe a little too much, but it was clearly worth it — it's so good it would've been worth _anything_. His sanity, his left knee, his life.

Ricky kisses Juan Carlos and Juan Carlos, after a second, kisses him back. That's the single most glorious moment in Ricky's life and he's Ricky Rubio, it's not like his life is lacking in glorious moments and epicness. Yet, when he licks his way into Juan Carlos' mouth and Juan Carlos' tongue is there to push against his own, _that_ sends a spark down Ricky's spine that might just as well melt him right away.

" _Juanki_ ," he breathes, backing up a little because, fuck. Yes.

Juan Carlos blinks a couple of times and finally, finally, _finally_ he looks somehow shaken. Maybe he's even blushing a little.

Ricky leans in for another kiss, but Juan Carlos, ever the gentleman, puts a hand to his mouth and pushes him back. Ricky is insanely happy, because right now he has an excuse to bite.

And he bites.

"Ow," Juan Carlos says, and he scrunches up his nose and knots his forehead a bit. He doesn't let Ricky's mouth free, though. "Stop biting, Ricky. I'm not — I'm not kissing you again."

Ricky pouts against his palm. He tries to complain, but he can't really articulate words with Juan Carlos' fingers holding his jaw in place; he can't bite, because Juan Carlos told him not to, so all he has left is licking.

And he licks.

Juan Carlos' hand skitters away like he got burnt. Ricky smiles, and dives to kiss him — harder, this time; he's all teeth and lips and Juan Carlos has to cup his face with both his hands, after a while, and guide him back to a wet, slower pace. Ricky hums happily into his mouth, kissing Juan Carlos just became his favourite activity of all times, and he spreads his knees onto the bed to lower himself just a bit to find some friction, some relief, some —

Juan Carlos arches up into him, and Ricky breaks away from the kiss, panting.

"What," he says, under his breath. "Juanki. Juanki, please, let me—"

Juan Carlos shakes his head, though. Of course he does.

"Don't even think about it," he says, still frowning in his not-very-frowny-but-still-this-is-not-a-completely-blank-face way. Ricky laughs.

"That's basically _all_ I think about, y'know," he says, cheeky as a random slap on the ass. Juan Carlos pinches him on the inside of his arm for that, and Ricky yelps. "That was mean."

"That was _earned_ ," Juan Carlos says, a stern look on his face that only makes Ricky want to kiss him — and bite him — more.

"I'm gonna tell everyone it's a hickey you gave me, y'know," Ricky grins, and right there in Juan Carlos' eyes there's a clear message to the Heavens: _please let the earth swallow me whole_. Only there's no earth beneath him, only a soft, huge bed, and above him a kid who's extremely pleased with the thought of having trapped him between his knees.

Juan Carlos should probably do something about that — the laying-under-Ricky thing.

"Can you please get off me?" he asks, but Ricky is very busy licking his lips to get a better feel of the unfamiliar taste Juan Carlos' mouth left on them.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" he asks, because a lot of people have asked _him_ that, in his life, and he's always wanted to give it a shot, a sort of vengeance. "Nah, scratch that. Do you kiss _Pau_ like that? No wonder he was so upset when I won you."

"You didn't win me," Juan Carlos says. _Boooooring_ , Ricky's mental Rudy says, rolling his eyes. "You can't win a person."

Ricky grins.

"You didn't say you don't."

"I didn't say I don't do what?"

"Kiss Pau like this," he says, and steals another sloppy, heated kiss; he meant to tease Juan Carlos some more, but all he can manage after is a delighted sigh, and then he's nuzzling the side of Juan Carlos' neck.

"I should really kick you out," Juan Carlos whispers, he sounds exhausted. Ricky giggles against his skin.

"Yeah," he says, kissing his way back up to Juan Carlos' lips. He's sprawled onto him, right now, and when he settles so that Juan Carlos' bony chest doesn't poke him in the ribs, he feels the hard nudge of his captain's cock against the thigh. He bites away a smile. "But you can't, I won you."

Juan Carlos rolls his eyes, and then he's flipped them over: Ricky doesn't even realize it until he's laying on his back, staring wide-eyedly up at Juan Carlos' frowny face.

"Woah. That was smooth," he says, and he doesn't waste a second before wrapping his legs around Juan Carlos' waist, no matter how hard Juan Carlos tries to slap them away. "You should teach me that."

"I'm not teaching you anything," Juan Carlos promises, pointing a stern finger at him. "Not _ever_."

Ricky just beams up at him then, because Juan Carlos lets him cross the ankles on the small of his back without a struggle.

"What are you going to—" Juan Carlos cuts him off in the best, only way, leaning down to press a dry kiss to his mouth, and Ricky is frighteningly quick to open it a bit and suck and nibble at Juan Carlos' bottom lip.

And then Juan Carlos — Juanki Navarro, _el capi_ , Ricky's head is spinning like a motherfucker, — is fumbling with the elastic band of Ricky's shorts and he's suddenly laughing, when he realizes Ricky has gone commando.

"I can't deal with you," Juan Carlos says, and there's an affectionate edge in his voice that makes Ricky shiver. "Seriously, Ricky?"

"Rudy spilled orange juice all over my backpack," Ricky says, shrugging and blushing a little because you go try being on the receiving end of Juanki's amused, soft smile. "The cleaning lady said they'd do my laundry first thing in the morning tomorrow."

"Right," Juan Carlos says, biting the corners of his lips to hide a smile. Ricky is afraid they can hear the deafening thrum of his heartbeat from across the country, so he pulls Juan Carlos down for another kiss.

"I could wear some of yours," he whispers, tracing the shell of Juan Carlos' ear with the tip of his tongue. Juan Carlos huffs half a laughter against his neck.

"Sorry," he says, and his face is probably bright pink but Ricky can't see him as he keeps nuzzling the underside of his jaw. "They're all taken."

Ricky chuckles, and of course that's when Juan Carlos finally, _finally_ closes his hand around his cock, and Ricky's mouth is already open around the laughter so there's no way to stop the undignified, squeaky sound that comes out of his throat when he feels his captain's fingers hot and firm everywhere against his skin.

"Fuck, Juanki," he breathes, with no voice left. Juan Carlos grins the slightest bit, with his free hand he tugs Ricky's short pants out of the way as far as he can.

"If you let go of my waist for a second—" he suggests, but Ricky shakes his head on the pillow.

"Never," he says, his eyes pressed closed because his captain's hand is around his dick and this is really real. "Juanki, can you just—"

And Juanki can, he really, surprisingly, really _can_ ; even with Ricky's shorts pooling awkwardly around his knees, Juan Carlos can, and he does. Jesus Christ. His grip around Ricky's cock is firm and just a tad too tight, most probably on purpose, his completely dry palm making an ungodly friction against Ricky's sensitive skin.

When he starts moving, slower than the traffic all around the Camp Nou on a game night, Ricky arches his back to push himself more into his touch, his presence. It feels like Juan Carlos is trying to test something — himself, maybe, but also Ricky, his body, the way he can make him shiver and twist his hips with the slightest flick of the wrist.

Juan Carlos teases, brushing the pad of his thumb across the already swollen tip of Ricky's cock; he teases, gripping him hard at the base and softening his touch all the way up to less than a caress. He teases with deliberately slow strokes and pulls a little at Ricky's skin, tipping his head to the side to look as it gets redder.

Ricky is making soft, whiny sounds from the back of his throat, and he has since long surrendered his legs' grabby position around Juan Carlos' waist, sprawling them back on the mattress, wide open as his stretched shorts allow him to.

Juan Carlos' hands are suddenly on his inner thighs, barely pushing to spread them still. Ricky happily obliges, and arches up and twists his hips, desperate for release. Juan Carlos hums softly, distracted by the endless, tanned curve of Ricky's thigh.

Ricky sucks in a broken breath when Juan Carlos takes him in his hand again, all softness forgotten and only a steady, maddening rhythm flicking through his wrist, his long fingers, the wide, hard expanse of his palm.

Ricky is shaking and rocking his hips and he doesn't even know how to spell _control_ anymore by the time he reaches his climax, breath hitching up in his chest and his heart melting; he arches off the bed so much even his head tips back, and he curls his toes into the blankets, bites his bottom lip and even through that he manages to let out a needy moan.

He flops back down into the mattress, and there's not a bone or a muscle inside his body that's not melting or screaming for another round — another kiss — another touch of Juan Carlos' fingertips, maybe a taste of his skin.

Ricky grins, his hair sticking everywhere on his forehead and into his eyes. He reaches out to touch the side of Juan Carlos' face, his beard.

"Hey, Juanki," he says, because that's the most coherent thought he has right now. Juan Carlos doesn't flinch, doesn't even pull a frown. He discreetly wipes his hand on the blanket that Ricky nearly ripped off the mattress, and then he sits back on his heels.

His knees must be killing him by now, and Ricky can't help but grin a little wider.

"Don't be late for training tomorrow morning," Juan Carlos says, _of course_. Ricky laughs and hits him with a pillow.

"You are a terrible man, _capi_."

"At least I _am_ a man, not a kid barely old enough to drive," Juan Carlos replies, with half a grin, and Ricky sticks out his tongue.

"I got my license two years ago now, y'know, I'm not a kid," he says, pouting a little. "And anyway, you could make a man out of me. You know, an _honest_ man," and then he's laughing and scrambling away because Juan Carlos looks outraged enough to seriously hit him.

He's also blushing a lot, which makes him unbelievably adorable and kinda defies the entire 'I'm your captain and an adult oh my God you should show me some _respect_ ' sort of thing.

"Get out of here before I call the security," Juan Carlos says, eyes blown wide, and he's picking up his book again.

Ricky is on his feet now, tugging his pants back in place as he looks at Juan Carlos from under his lashes.

He asks, "Are you sure? Juanki, you should take care of—" but before he can even think about pointing at the neglected bulge in Juan Carlos' training pants, he gets hit square in the face by a pillow, and then another, and he barely dodges the third by throwing himself on the floor. "Okay, okay, I get it, cease fire! I'm going!" he says, laughing, and when he takes a peek he sees that Juan Carlos is glaring at him from across the bed.

Ricky giggles, he gets up and stretches a little. There's a fuzzy warmth still trying to settle in his belly, and he couldn't stop smiling even if he tried.

"The door, Rubio," Juan Carlos says, not as sternly as he probably meant it; he points at it, though, and Ricky grins.

"One last kiss?"

Juan Carlos sighs, "You're lucky I'm out of pillows." He reaches out for the book again, at that, and Ricky is pretty sure he wouldn't actually throw it at him, because it's Pau's book and everyone in the world knows how much Pau cares about his books, but honestly? He's pushed his luck enough for today.

"G'night," he says, and he all but runs to the door.

Pau is right there on the other side, of course, leaning against the wall and frowning. He's kinda menacing, but Ricky just smiles and no-one can really stay mad at Ricky's smile.

"Goodnight," Pau says, pushing himself away from the wall.

Ricky nods, starts to walk away, then he stops and spins around to look back at him. "You were right, y'know?" he says. "You can't really win a person at poker. He's all yours."

Pau looks taken aback for barely half a second, then he goes back to feigning annoyance.

"He's never not been mine," he says, endlessly dignified with his double negatives and the stern face he's wearing to hide the childish need to stick out his tongue.

Ricky laughs as Pau gets back into his room, back to his Juanqui; when he shuts the door, Ricky skips back to it silent as a whisper, and glues himself to the wood panel.

He hears some shuffling, then a loud thud that makes him jump because something big and heavy — Pau, probably, — just hit the other side of the door. Ricky closes his eyes trying to focus as hard as he can, and he makes out hushed whispers and the soft rustling of clothes and then a whimper — Pau, again, — and a laughter, — yes, Pau, _again_ , — and a soft, wet noise that twists and knots something in his lower belly.

It feels like he's been there forever, all pressed against the door, listening and biting his lips, his breath hitching and his heartbeat skyrocketing in time with Pau's soft moans from inside the room, when finally Ricky hears it — one low, shy gasp, and a long hum right after it, deep and smoky and barely audible over the sweet nonsense Pau's been whispering.

Ricky smiles, his eyes still closed; he has no idea of the faces Juan Carlos during sex, but he knows what he sounds like, and that's what they call a clean sweep.


End file.
